Hem. Your place now Sir?
Gos. By the Sand-hills.
Hem. Sir, nearer to the woods, If you thought so, were fitter.
Gos. There, then.
Hem. Good. Your time?
Gos. 'Twixt seven and eight.
Hem. You'l give me Sir Cause to report you worthy of my Niece, If you come, like your promise.
Gos. If I do not, Let no man think to call me unworthy first, I'le do't my self, and justly wish to want her.— [Exeunt.
ACTUS TERTIUS. SCENA PRIMA.
Enter three or four Boors.